Slow Fire Burn
by ALiquoriceWand
Summary: He tastes of wine, whisky, and the cigarettes she knows he can't seem to quit.


**Slow Fire Burn**

He tastes of wine. That is Rose's only thought as his fingers run down her sides and he pushes her against the wall. She barely registers the cool of the plaster through her thin shirt, or the slam of the door, which sounds as if it's coming from a million miles away, as Scorpius kicks it closed behind them. All she can focus on is his taste, the subtle blend of wine, whisky mingled with the cigarettes that she knows he can't seem to quit.

Tonight his kisses start slow. He is hesitant and questioning, almost trembling, as he leans into her, his body heavy against her own, sandwiching her tightly between layers of robes and the unfinished paintjob behind them. It is her hands that move first- his choosing to remain firmly at her sides- as her palms travel up the front of his chest, fingers moving quickly to undo the clasp of his robes. Once released she pushes the outer layer over his shoulders so they fall to the floor with a soft thump. The sound is the encouragement he needs, and his kisses become firmer and more frantic. His hands move to the edge of her shirt and slip deftly underneath, before tracing patterns onto her bare skin.

As his fingers roam upwards, coming to drift lightly and promisingly over the lace of her bra she lifts her arms, allowing him to raise the flimsy material of her shirt over her head. She gasps as her now bare flesh reconnects with the wall behind them and his fingers flick once again over the delicate black lace. Returning her hands to his neck, she pulls him closer and takes his tongue into her mouth, every movement urging him on.

With all hesitation gone, his tongue meets her own and his hands travel down pushing under her skirt as his fingers softly trace the hem of her underwear. She lets out a low moan, as he picks her up, his fingers pressing roughly into the skin at the top of her thighs. He grips her tightly encouraging her to wrap her legs around him, before he carries her down the small hall into the bedroom. She feels perhaps she should stop this. It would be better to sit up and encourage him to talk about the trial, force him to open up and let her the whole way in, but she doesn't and, despite the day's events, as he lays her onto the bed a soft smile forms on her lips.

After all, sometimes, she reasons in the back of her mind as his lips trail kisses down her neck, across the shoulder bone, over the cluster of freckles on her left shoulder and below, there are simply no words.

* * *

It is the breeze that wakes her. The cool air from the open window brushes against her face and pulls her from sleep. Through barely open eyes she sees him standing at the window smoking a cigarette. For a moment she just watches, hypnotised, as the small swirl of smoke floats upwards before evaporating into the air. "That's true addiction," she says before her sleepy mind can catch up with herself. "When you can't sleep without them?"

His shoulders tense startled and slowly he turns to face her. "These days I can't sleep with them," he admits, looking her guiltily at her. "Sorry I woke you. I know tomorrow's going to be just as bad for you."

The trial has been unbearable and it is not the first night she has awoken to an empty bed to find Scorpius at the window, cigarette in hand, reading through some notes or another by candle light. Tonight, however, the only light comes from faint glow at the end of the dying cigarette as he raises it to his lips one final time, before stumping it out frustrated. There are no more notes to read, speeches to prepare or questions to consider. There is nothing more that can be done except to wait and hope that the Wizengamot can reach a verdict so that this case might be firmly be filed away amongst the others and he can move on. She looks at him sadly as she pushes her feet over the edge of the bed, wrapping the thin white bed sheet around her and crossing the room towards him. He continues to stare defiantly out of the open window into the night as she leans her head against his back, wrapping her arms around him. "Just come back to bed," she encourages him. "There's nothing else that can be done for tonight."

He says nothing, just continues to stare in front of him. She remembers when she was young, thinking how magical law enforcement was such a noble and honorable profession. It is, she reminds herself firmly. Still she longs for the days when her view of it isn't tainted by what she now knows. Her mother made laws, fought laws, and changed laws. It was ideological, right versus wrong, acceptance versus prejudice, good versus evil. She never had to see this other side of it; what happened when the crime had already been committed, lives already destroyed and hearts already broken. She had come to realise that the sole problem with justice was that it could never, no matter how hard you tried, undo the hurt that had come before.

She puts a hand in his, and turns him to face her. Instinctively he lifts an arm, draping it around her waist and pulling her into him. "Do you think you'll win?" she asks him, her voice muffled by his flesh as she runs her fingers slowly up and down his arm.

"Off the record," he asks hesitantly.

"Off the record," she reassures him, stroking his hand with her thumb and looking up at him encouragingly, begging him to let her in.

He sighs into the darkness. "I'm not sure it makes much difference anymore."

She lifts herself on to the tip of her toes so she can place her head on his shoulder. "You can't afford to think like that," she whispers into his ear "He's guilty. They all know he's guilty."

Scorpius gives a defeated shrug. "And so it's Azkaban for ten years. Maybe twenty. Maybe life. What difference is it going to make?"

"People need justice."

"Still, we're never going to return a dead husband even if we put another in prison for the crime. Merlin, what's wrong with me?" he asks angrily.

"It was a horrific case."

"It was a case Rose," he answers coldly. "I've worked on nearly a hundred of these in the last few years, you've reported over that. So what is it about this one?"

This time it is Rose that shrugs because she doesn't know. The truth is she had been wondering this herself ever since he started working on it two weeks ago. She knows he has always been emotionally connected to his work, knows that why he is so good at what he does; because he cares. It's not just about the victory for him rather the hope that he can make a difference and his continued trust that the right verdict still has the power to offer a little comfort, no matter how miniscule, to those that have suffered. She is at a loss to explain why this one has affected him in the way that he has. The only answer she can think of is that they all eventually work on something that gets under their skin completely, maybe this is simply Scorpius' time. She tugs lightly on his hand, "Come back to bed," she whispers once more.

* * *

She makes her way through the usual after work crowd in The Three Broomsticks offering a smile to the few that recognise her but she does not stop. She finds him sitting at the far end of the bar, two glasses of whisky in front of him, one full and one empty, with the familiar cigarette packet discarded to his left. She pushes her now finished article on the trial into the pocket of her robes and walks towards him.

"Sickle for your thoughts," she says, pulling herself up onto the wooden barstool.

"Generous," he replies evenly. He turns and smiles at her. "I got you a whisky," he pushes the full glass towards her. "I figured you could use it."

She chuckles gratefully. "It feels like an age since I've had one of these."

"Yesterday," he teases.

"It feels like a lifetime ago."

He nods somberly. "That's true. Sorry," he indicates the empty glass in front of him. "I did mine without you."

"S'alright," she says, raising the drink to her lips, before pausing, "What did you toast?" she asks him.

"I didn't," he replies. "Should have toasted victory I suppose, but it doesn't much feel like one does it?"

"It was," she promises him, laying the glass back onto the bar. "Justice was served."

He is silent for a second, staring at the glass and the print her lipstick has made on its side. "Either way, two families have now been destroyed and two children now have to grow up without fathers. Doesn't seem like much of a cause for celebration to me."

"No," she agrees sadly. "I suppose it doesn't." She raises the glass to her lips and downs the drink in one, relishing the slow burn that it makes as it runs down her throat.

"Did you make the deadline?"

She nods. "The verdict came just in time. It's going to be on the front page."

He shakes his head sadly, "Poor kids," he says, and not for the first time Rose feels guilty for reporting the news, how her words can turn events, often so private, into a spectacle readily packaged for public consumption.

But she doesn't want to think on it anymore. She doesn't want to debate the effect of their jobs, because they are making a difference and she won't let him lose that resolve. It's not an option. "Let's just go home," she says, dropping some loose change on to the bar for the drinks. His gaze follows her hand as she reaches for the cigarette packet, passing them to him slowly.

"Leave them," he tells her, his eyes not leaving her hand, and more specifically the white gold band that he had placed upon her wedding finger not a month before. He reaches for her, holding her wrist tightly and staring at her with newfound intensity. "I'm going to be there," he promises her earnestly, "For every moment."

She smiles. That night, her husband only tastes of whisky.


End file.
